Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars
by XenoSangui
Summary: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood.

**Spoilers:** None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**: 1,021(~11,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural

**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.

**Author's Note: **This is already complete in five parts and I'll post these about once a week until it's done. Until then, enjoy!

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><p>Every so often, Dean finds himself desperate—not very often, mind you, but certainly enough for the urge to do just about anything to make the problem go away. Usually, it's money. When you're on the run with no steady income, a back-pocket full of fraudulent credit cards, and no education past highschool(which also had the downside of his marks being halfway between horribleville and I-don't-give-a-shitland).<p>

If it's not money, then it's sleep. Sleep is one of those things normal people take for granted, and half the teenagers in the world don't think sleep applies to them. What he would do for a solid twelve hours of rest...no monsters or poltergeists seven towns over to worry about, no one to save...general _normality._ Hell, what he would give for_ five _hours_._

Normal. The word seems so foreign.

This time it isn't sleep or money that drives his desperation, but pure _desperation_ alone. There's a little fear mixed in there somewhere too. He can't be fearless all the time, despite whatever mask he puts up in front of Sam.

Sammy isn't here now, though, and his face is set into a grim mask of near acceptance. Even though he wants nothing more than to lie in a ditch and wait for the problems to pass, that wont' work here...not now. Not with four angry sharpshooters chasing him down, pinning them in the sights of their guns and waiting for him to make just _one wrong move._ The second he does, it's over. It's all over.

The words echo horribly in his head, but they aren't as bad as they could be. Sam could be there, in just as much danger as he is, but he's not. Sam's back at some ass-backwards motel doing research on some mysterious creatures that take out three or four people every night, hitting different towns and cities. All the disappearances occurred in one state—Ohio. Only after six hunters went missing and the body count racked up to over twenty did Sam and Dean hear about it. Being Winchesters and all they rushed right in, stormed in, and got it all wrong.

They never stopped once to think maybe—just maybe—the attacks were human.

It turns out, that was their big mistake. Dean forces the Impala onto a side road, his eyes switching constantly so he could focus on the road ahead, and the damn _soldiers_ driving recklessly only a few meters back. If they get any closer..._damn!_

Dean ducks his head just as a bullet shatters the windshield and sends another projectile reeling towards his very exposed head, a long stream a colorful words following right behind it. Yup. This is going to be a long night... Getting away from human snipers is like being crushed by a python. There's a small chance someone will stumble upon the half-crushed person, but otherwise they're completely and utterly screwed.

Demons...demons are nothing. Their just hell-overun souls blackened by hatred and torture from both sides. They go down black and come back up even blacker, possessing good souls to do bad things. Yeah, he _got_ demons. It's not like they, unlike humans, are difficult to figure out. They want humans to be destroyed, but no without a little pain first. It's their one and only goal. It's the way the _are_.

Humans, though...the humans that did his shit are fucked up. There is no simpler way to put it—no black and white area. The stupid soldiers tailing him got fucked in the brain somewhere along the road and they were forcing others to reap what they sow. It's stupid, arrogant, and completely pigheaded. And_, dammit, _it he gets out of this with less than three bullets through his forehead, he'll kill those sonsofbitches. Even _if_ he gets three bullets through the forehead, he'll come back and haunt their sorry asses.

The Impala jumps and swerves; Dean's head manages to connect with the doorframe, practically sending stars shooting before his eyes. Despite the blossoming pain in his head, he instinctively knows that the soldiers got smart and blew out one of his tires—why they hadn't done that twenty miles back is completely beyond him. Unless he bails, he's screwed. He wrenches the wheel sideways, systematically pulling her over as he apologized and bade his most prized possession a good-bye. If he is lucky, maybe the soldiers will forget all about the car while in pursuit of Dean and he can come back to get it later.

Stupid...stupid thing to think about now. He loves his car, but his life..his life is _effin_' priceless.

He throws open the door, one of is shotguns already in hand as he bolts for the thick woods only a few meters away As he runs, he can hear the other humans behind him, the noises from their heavy boots fading and growing closer at different intervals. The woods was his best form of cover; it would be hard for them to get a clear shot on him as long as he keeps running.

He runs for several minutes, the sounds of small birds and restful creatures are droned out by his mad dash for safety—a place where he can duck and watch the huge boots patter by like in the movies. Craptastic thing about moves are, nothing like that happens in real life, so he is stuck running and tiring faster by the second.

Yes, he's been raised on drills and military-style training—courtesy of John Winchester—but that doesn't mean he's an endless energizer bunny, beating on a drum.

His foot catches on one thick root that seemed to spring from nowhere, curling around his foot—this, of course, was probably a part of his imagination—and pulling him to the ground with a heavy thump. He feels a bit of pain blossom in his left hip—there's going to be one hell of a bruise there later.

"Shit." He curses softly, struggling to regain his footing. Sure, he would lose time, but if he gets up fast enough—

The butt of a gun descends on the back of his head, sending him sprawling into unconsciousness.

His life officially sucks.

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><p><em>Review for more.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood

**Spoilers:** None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**: 2,081(~11,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural

**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.

**Author's Note:** Here's the next part. I plan to post Chapter 3 by next Friday or Saturday depending on my schedule. Please note that if there are mistakes, I am betaless. So I might not catch everything despite picking over each chapter before I post. Thanks.

* * *

><p>The first thing Dean feels when he comes to is the intense burn in his upper arms which were raised above his head and fastened to...something. He doesn't want to open his eyes to look. No matter how damn <em>Winchester<em> he is, it doesn't mean he looks forward to the obvious pain he has coming his way. His positioning, hanging upright by his frickin' wrists(which hurt like Hell right now; thanks for asking) is a clear sign that a bizarre ritual is taking place, or someone wants intel.

The chances of him getting out of the situation scotch-free are beginning to look unlikely.

Someone throws water over his head, sending rivers of the ice-cold liquid flowing down his face. His body jerks slightly at the sudden temperature drop; a small spasm is his immediate reaction to the surprise. His eyes crack open slightly—just enough to get a glimpse of where he was at, possible even scope out an escape route.

No such luck. The layout of the entire room is relatively easy to guess just from the small portion he _is_ able to see from his awkward position. Dry, gray walls and identical floors—utterly empty of anything else. It's clearly a basement, and not the sort that's safe in case of a fire. Once down here, someone isn't meant to escape.

Damn. That makes this whole situation ten times worse.

No doubt by now Sam's out looking for him and there's no possible way for Dean to contact his Sasquatch of a brother to tell him that the killers are human, there's about thirty of them milling around everywhere, and they have guns.

They were very, very painful guns if the bruise on the back of his head has anything to say about it.

"Wake up, Winchester," A very gruff, hoarse voice came from his right—probably the idiot who decided it would be funny to throw ice-cold water on him. "Time to answer some questions for us."

Okay, so information it is. Not a ritual.

Torture, but no necessary time limit to worry about. He can work with this.

"We're not being fair here, now are we?" His own voice, practically a whisper in the room, shocks him for a few moments. If his throat is as dry as it sounds, then he's been out longer than a few hours. Huh. Patient maniacs. What a nice change. "Not giving me much chance of pulling a Shawshank here."

"Shut up," A second voice, this one coming from somewhere to his left behind him, is much higher pitched, but clearly still male. _Someone go picked on a lot by the other kiddies, I bet._ "One of these days, that smart mouth might just kill you."

"Yeah? You're not the first ones to say so." And he isn't aren't. Dean can recall a few teachers, and his father, right off the top of his head who said those exact same words to him over the years.

Of course, the teachers hadn't tied him up and dumped water over his head.

One of the people in the room—who knows how many are really there, because all of them are standing behind where he's suspended—comes into his line of sight and he takes a moment to blink the droplets of water out of his eyes so he can properly see one of the idiots who decided it would be a good idea to hunt down Dean Winchester _of all people. _

The man is hardly a man at all. He can't be any older than nineteen, but he has something in his eyes that sends chills down Dean's spine—something completely evil hovered around him. Not a possession...not even close to a possession. This is all human. The boy's sandy-colored hair falls into his blue eyes, but the boy just grins and pushes it away. The kid walks—no, he _saunters_—up to Dean, leaning in close.

The kid is pretty tall, he decides as the eyes burrow into his soul. Dean gasps as he feels something within him twist in agonizing pain. The kid's grin just widens.

"Dean Winchester," The kid's voice is like honey—sickening just below the initial sweetness. "Comfortable? I hope not."

" 'Fraid I can't say the same." The pain came again and he jerks in the chains, eyes rolling back. What the _hell_ was the kid doing? It almost seems like the kid is manipulating him via brainwaves. _Maybe he is_, Dean thinks through his eyes which were beginning to fog up from the pain.

The kid steps away and the pain stops within seconds. There isn't a bit of residual discomfort. If not for how intense the feelings were only seconds before, he may have believed he imagined the entire thing. "Well, Dean, since you're going to be staying here for awhile, we should really speak on a first name basis. It's only polite after all." The kid pulls out a knife—sickeningly already covered in dry, crusty blood—and holds it to Dean throat, mere millimeters away from the pale skin. "Calem." He says simply before cutting a thin line across Dean throat. Not deep enough to kill him, but just enough to send a thin line of blood dripping to the ground, a quiet _drip drip drip_ echoing in the small room.

It turns his stomach a little to know that it's his blood that's being spilled.

The kid—_Calem_—licks his lips, eyes alight. "You have something I need, Dean." The Calem's eyes only seem to shine brighter. "I need it a lot. And you _will _tell me it's location."

Like he's going to listen to some sick kid high on something he really shouldn't be on—say, demonic power? Maybe, but there's no trace of possession. Manipulation, however, seems to be very likely. Who _knows_ what the kid is dealing with.

Dean shakes his head. The cut on his throat makes it hurt to swallow let alone manage to speak a full sentence when he doesn't have to—doesn't want to.

"Being stubborn's only gonna hurt you, Dean. You might just want to think about that while you're hanging around."

Calem turns on his heels and walks out of sight. The telltale sound of a door closing and locks clicking shut are the only sign towards a departure. He relaxes, not caring whether there is a guard there to see it. Between the late night hours, the high-speed chase, several bruises in places he really doesn't want to think about, and a long run through the woods, he's exhausted.

Drained.

His eyes flutter shut despite the danger and his body slumps as sleep—real sleep—overcomes him. Unconsciousness is nothing like genuine, too-damn-tired-to-care sleep.

_(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)_

The next time he wakes up, he isn't alone.

A scrawny little boy somewhere around eleven years of age is sitting Indian-style in one of the visible corner, his small head rolled back against the and cement wall. His eyes are open, staring unblinking at the ceiling. Dean cranes his head upwards at a painful angle, trying to see what's so appealing about the smooth cement. There isn't much—it's surprising a blank ceiling can hold a child's attention for so long. The soft clinking of the chains shifting distract the kid, though, and he looks towards Dean, his green eyes dull.

The little kid has long, unkept hair and feminine features—it takes Dean a minute to be certain that the kid is even a boy. Beneath the scruffiness, Dean can clearly see a child, afraid to show his fear.

"Hey, kid." He winces at his own voice. It's even hoarser now.

The boy looks away, his body coiling and he unfolds his legs before drawing them close to his chest and burying his head in them. Dean frowns, but doesn't say another word. He got the hint. The kid is scared and _clearly_ for a good reason.

Dean notices something he hadn't before—the little boy has his foot chained to the wall, restricting his movements while still allowing his a five foot radius to walk. Like a dog on a leash.

_Damnit, Sam. Get here soon. _

He isn't looking forward to his next meeting with Calem who, strangely enough, seems to be the mastermind behind this whole situation _despite_ his youth.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear._

Dean tenses automatically when he hears the door grind against the floor, slowly opening. Quick footsteps come right afterward, but there's no sound of the door closing, shutting them off once more.

Calem walks into view, smug smile still present on his face. He turns to look at Dean for a few moments, eyes swiveling between him and the little boy. "Ahh, you're awake. Pity. I need the boy right now, so you'll just have to wait your turn." Calem pats Dean on the cheek, who reels away from the touch.

The psychopath just shrugs in a _suit yourself_ manner before walking the short distance to the boy—who doesn't seem to register Calem's presence— as he pulls a key discretely from his pocket and unlatches the cuff from around the boy's swollen ankle. "Follow me, dearest. Time to go topside."

The boy stares blankly ahead as Calem grasps him by the forearm and drags him up the stairs. The sound of the door closing comes a few seconds later. Dean sighs, his focus now on the kid. What the hell did this group of idiots want with a defenseless kid who's lifeless—useless?

The thought worries him; they could do anything to the kid and he would probably never so much as lift a finger to defend himself.

Dean knows what being _broken_ looks like and the kid seems to emit waves of complete, desolate emptiness.

If the kid dies while he's hanging here, dangling uselessly by his wrists, he knows the death will be on him. There are always choices in this world; he just has to make the right ones. Somehow, he has to get out of these binds.

After struggling for five minutes Dean knows it's pointless. Chains are chains, opened only by key. Using brute force against them is only weakening his own low reserve of energy.

Time in the...basement is not comprehensible. He can't tell when a minute or an hour has gone by; time stretches on forever, continuing even as the pain in his upper arms grows bit by bit until there's a constant burning sensation making anything above his elbow numb.

Sam hasn't shown up yet, which is worrisome enough.

Or maybe not. He has not idea how long it's been since he was captured. Sam may not even realize he's gone yet...

Eventually, the boy is thrown back into the room. Literally. The crunching sound of the door opening wrenches Dean out of his stasis and he sees the boy crumble to the ground out of the corner of his eye. The door closes again, but the boy isn't chained this time. Huh. Obviously the room must be extremely secure if they would risk letting a prisoner—even if it is a kid—run lose without any sort of binding to hold him down.

The kid manages to get to his feet after a few tries and he pulls himself into the same corner as before.

Dean notices a few differences in the kid right away. He's much paler than before, his skin is a stark contrast to the raven-black hair. His eyes are red and swollen, as if he's been crying for a long time without stopping.

Whatever these monsters are doing to the kid is going to get them killed nice and slowly by Dean's hands. No kid deserves being manhandled and locked up like this.

The kid sniffles and look towards Dean again, uncertainty filling his eyes for a few moments. "Who're you?"

Dean blinks at the soft voice, identifying a faint British accent well on it's way to being eradicated in favor of the traditional American speech patterns. "Dean Winchester, kid. How about you?"

The kid nods, but Dean can see the name means nothing to him. " Harry." The boy ducks his head and curls up into a ball, signaling the discussion being over. Dean leave the kid be. He has a name now. Harry who, apparently, is English.

_I'm gonna get you out of here, Harry, if it's the last thing I do._

Dean really hopes he doesn't have to break that internal promise, because he can see the desperation in Harry's young eyes, the need to escape.

Harry's been here longer than Dean has. He's sure of that.

* * *

><p>When Dean refers to <em>pulling a<em> _Shawshank, _he is referencing to a novella called _"Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption", _which was written by Stephen King. In the novella, a man escapes from prison after a few decades by digging a hole through his wall and covering the hole with posters until he finally escaped. Thus, Dean is referring to an escape, or lack thereof.

_Review._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood.

**Spoilers**: None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**: 2,780 (~11,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural

**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.

**Author's Note:** This is part three of five. I'll warn you now, this series concludes rather quickly because I actually wanted to finish something, but it's still quite good(in my opinion). Well, read and make my day.

* * *

><p>When Dean wakes up the next morning, Harry isn't in his corner anymore. Instead, the boy is asleep, curled up in a little ball against the wall, as close to Dean as physical possible without actually touching him.<p>

Dean doesn't mind much; at least he's providing comfort for the kid, even if he can't do anything else.

He closes his eyes again, but he doesn't sleep—he can't sleep. Not anymore. His body's just isn't used to having so much time to recuperate and it's protesting at the worst possible time. He winces in pain and draws himself in, closing himself off from the physical world, for awhile at least. It's no permanent solution, but it gets rid of the aches for a little while.

Dean's so focused that he never hears the door open—he doesn't hear the footsteps come closer or feel the breeze flow by him as someone walks swiftly passed. He only notices that he and Harry aren't alone anymore when the the boy cries out in obvious distress, the sound of feet shuffling coming soon afterward. Dean's eyes shoot open, quickly eating up the scene in front of him. It's Calem once more and he's dragging Harry back to his corner physically, locking the cuff around the boys ankle aggressively. Once the deed is done, Calem lets go of Harry and the child shrinks away, shuddering.

"What do you have against the kid?" No use letting the psycho know Harry spoke to him. "I get me, Winchester being my last name, but the kid can't be anything to you."

Calem chuckles softly; something in his face told Dean that there's something he's not aware of yet—something big...important. "Oh, that kid is special. He's really going to be something one day."

"Yeah?" Dean manages to get out before his throat swallows the words. "Bull. It's a damn _kid_."

"Shut up, _Dean_." Even with all the malice and hatred behind the words, Calem's face never shifts from it's pleasant mask. "You aren't aware of the situation and you have no vote in the matter." He shifts from his right foot to his left, rubbing his hands together. "Now, it's your turn."

Dean laughs weakly. "Sure. I have something you want. So what? Buy your own."

"But you don't even know what I want." The knife is back in Calem's hand again, still encased in a thin layer of dry blood. Some of it's Dean's now. "I assure you, if it was as simple as going to the nearest retail store and picking it up off a shelf, you would be dead right now, rather than mucking up my room."

Calem hums under his breath, using the edge of the knife to gingerly make a small incision down the length of Deans' arm, from elbow to just above his wrist. It's a thin cut, but blood wells up anyway. Dean grits his teeth, not making a sound, "It's a ring actually."

Dean snorts, "You would be the jewelry-obsessed murder."

Calem grabs Dean's jaw forcefully, his eyes burning as he cuts deep into Dean's cheek—deeper than necessary. "It's a very important ring, once belonging to my family before it was _taken off our hands_ by a melodramatic thief who said it was for our own good._ Hardly._"

The murderer releases Dean's jaw, carefully sifting through his pocket while still keeping on eye one Dean. After a few seconds, he pulls out a worn piece of yellowed parchment, wrinkled from age. Dean looks at the picture quietly, fighting to keep any spark of recognition from entering his eyes.

He knows the ring. Of course he does. Most murderers at least get the minimal details right. Calem is no different. The ring, Dean knows, is currently at Bobby's place, locked up with all the other potentially dangerous weapons and odd artifacts somewhere in the panic room.

He's not sure what the ring is for; not even Bobby seemed to know the answer and Sam wasn't around when they came into possession of the ring. By the time Sam came back, the ring was long forgotten. It just wasn't important enough to care about and bring up again.

It just _had_ to be the one thing the come back and bite him in the ass.

"You know it." The glee in Calem's voice is so tangible, Dean almost swears he can feel it crawl beneath his skin.

"I _don't_."

"You do." Another swipe at his skin with the knife, this time on his other cheek and just as deep as the last one. "Don't lie, Dean. I can tell."

Calem leans in close, his forehead nearly touching Dean's and his eyes almost impossibly wide. Dean attempts to jerk his head away, but Calem just chuckles. "Dude, personal space would be—"

"Tell me." Calem holds up the knife, which somehow still gleams in the sparse lighting of the basement even with the blood. Suddenly, something flickers through the psycho's eyes and he settles back flat on his feet, his smile still in place. "I'm going to give you two days," He held up two fingers, "Two days to decide whether or not you're going to tell me of your own violation. You will tell me, because after those two days I will start cutting. I'm not afraid to hack off a few of your limbs if you resist, keep that in mind."

Calem makes a quick motion with his hand over his shoulder as he walks out of sight. A few seconds later, Dean hears the locks around his wrists click open and feels himself being lowered to the ground. Before he can so much as even think of struggling, a cuff similar to Harry's is attached to both of his legs, but his arms are left free. Dean tests the strength—settling on the fact that they're some of the best available—as he watches the two practically identical grunts make their exit without a word edgewise.

This time when the door closes, he sees it and a bit of that hope that maybe he could get himself out of this situation fades. The door clearly has a vault-lock—definitely not something he has the know-how nor the prowess to unlock. _Damnit,_ they need Sam.

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

He's never going to tease Sam again for reading ever again. Ever.

...Okay, so that might be a _little_ lie.

If a book was presented to Dean now, he would snatch it up in an instant. The waiting, the sitting on his ass twiddling his thumbs thing is wrecking havoc on his nerves. He's not the frickin' damsel in distress in these situations, he's the knight in shining armor—well, not so much the whole armor part. More like the hero...he saves people. He _doesn't_ sit down and wait to be saved by his girl of a brother.

Except, of course, when he does.

It's not like he has a _choice_.

Harry is out of his chains again(the grunts released him when Calem was safely out of the room), but he's still in the same corner, unmoving. His eyes stare blankly ahead. If not for the telltale rise and fall of the little boy's chest, Dean might have feared that he died. It seems like he's just more accustomed to extreme boredom than Dean is.

"Hey, kid...Harry." His voice is continuously getting worse. If the psychos don't come down soon with water, he's probably going to die of dehydration. For now, he can still talk, so he's going to use it while he can.

Harry finally blinks, lowering his chin as he tilts his head slightly towards Dean, his eyes on the floor in submission. The freaks upstairs have broken the boy—Dean can tell. There's something beneath the surface, though, that continues to baffle him. It's almost like hope, crushed, but not yet gone.

"Harry, I need you to come over here. Can you do that?" His voice cracks and he's barely able to finish his sentence. _Damn._

Harry averts his eyes even more, shaking his head in both denial and blatant refusal.

The kid isn't going to trust him. No matter what Dean does, the only thing Harry can see is how adults have treated him hear so far. Fear over well-being. Nothing is going to override that primal fear installed deep within his insticts—it just isn't going to happen. Dean may be able to lure out a bit of obedience and even respect, but never trust. Not here.

Nothing else is going to happen tonight, so Dean leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. He doesn't sleep. Instead, he tries to think of a plan, _any plan_, to get out of this hole in the ground—to get Harry out of here. Civilians before himself—that's the rule.

The rule has never seemed so personal before.

A few minutes after he goes into his semi-conscious state, Dean's feels the air shift and a warm body curl into his side. He opens his eyes a hair and smiles a little when he notices it's Harry, eyes already closed and half-asleep within seconds.

For now, it's okay. He'll think of a solid plan tomorrow.

Tomorrow. _Right_.

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

Dean is a Hunter. Hunters don't sleep like regular humans. Having an excessive amount of sleep when accustomed to much, much less only serves to make his body lapse into a shaky tenseness—a state of having to much energy and not having any way to get rid of it.

He shifts, forgetting about Harry, still asleep. Sometimes during the night, the little boy must have had a craving for human contact because he's now half in Dean's lap, face peaceful and body showing none of pain Dean knows he feels while awake.

At least the kid has a means of finding peace, because Dean sure as hell doesn't.

Dean takes inventory of the room, looking for any weaknesses. Four identical slabs of grey concrete pushed together, another slab of concrete eight feet or so above their heads. In all four corners, there are cuffs meant to hold anyone down and in the very center of the room, there is the wooden structure he spent quite a bit of time on. On one of the walls, there's a large door, made of concrete, that's constructed in a way that makes only a faint outline visible. No doubt it's well-disguised on the outside.

The kid opens his eyes slowly, blinking a few times as he stares up at Dean, a little surprise lighting up his features. Other than that, the kid doesn't seem overall annoyed with the contact.

"You feel good." Harry starts retreating as he says those words, but he stays within a few feet. Its an accomplishment, Dean decides.

Dean is initially confused, "I do?"

"Yeah," Harry nods slowly, uncertainty in his small, pixie-like features, "Not like Calem. Calem feels bad..._evil_." The kid shudders, "You feel nice...white...pure. _Clean_."

Dean knows he's, of all things, clean, but he isn't about to tell Harry that. "What about all the other men?"

Harry draws into himself, crossing his arms protectively. "Bad. Nasty. Like Calem, but not as evil. Bad. Very bad."

Halfway through the short spiel, Dean realizes that Harry has something extremely traumatic altering his perception...his words. Sam would know, being the bookworm he is, but Dean knows next to nothing about PTSD.

"How old are you, Harry?"

Maybe he doesn't want to know the answer—maybe it's a mistake to ask and face the risk of feeling guilty for not getting out sooner. Some part of him didn't care and wants to know.

"Thirteen." Harry's face twists as if he's rethinking his words. Then, he carefully adds, "I think."

Harry doesn't look thirteen. He has the body structure of a eleven year old, if that, and the speech patterns of someone much younger. Yet, both those problems can be the result from years of lacking sunlight and social-deprivation. Dean rubs his face in trepidation "Okay, Harry, I'm assuming you've been here longer than I have. Is there anything important about this place—anything I should know."

The boy tilts his head a little, holding his fist up to his lips in thought and biting his thumb, "I don't know."

Dean doesn't react; he didn't expect anything. Some kids are just too young to deal with traumatic experiences and remember any external details. He can't expect any different from Harry. Despite the thoughts, he can't help but to feel a bit of that frustration seep in."Where did Calem take you yesterday?"

Harry's face crumbles in on itself and he backs away quickly, practically tripping over his feet as he retreats. "I don't want to talk about it."

Dean winces. _Oops. _"Don't worry, kid. I'm gonna get both of us out of this."

Harry doesn't appear to hear him, but Dean has no intention of breaking the promise.

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

The two days pass at an agonizingly slow rate. Times seems to loop, over and over again, as he sits in that one spot, the chains not allowing an adult to stand up. His legs are cramped, but the pain in his upper arms is just starting to fade. As it turns out, being dangled by only the wrists causes some serious strain on the arms. Nothing he can't ignore until later.

It doesn't take him long to gain Harry's...respect? The kid is _emitting_ desperation and a craving for attention from other humans that don't openly seek to harm him. Dean has no qualms about letting himself be the one giving Harry what he seeks. For now. Eventually, the kid settles in, gets comfortable. After awhile, they can have long conversations without Harry backing away from Dean in fear—a small accomplishment, but an accomplishment nonetheless.

Halfway through the first day, Dean sees something his eyes skimmed right over before—a small ventilation shaft in the ceiling, covered by a piece of thin cement suspended just below it in a way that makes it nearly impossible to see it. A possible escape route if he's ever seen one. Heck, the wooden structure was directly beneath the shaft. From here, he can't do a damn thing because of the restricting cuffs, but if he can just get out of them...

He settles back to wait. Dean has a plan. Not a foolproof plan, but its better than nothing.

Calem shows up early, or what Dean assumes is early, looking exactly the same as he had two days before right down to the too-tight jeans and navy blue polo shirt. That small detail both surprises and disgusts Dean a little; can't the psycho take a few seconds out of his day to change?

Dean laughs, because _this _is what he thinks about when he's seconds from possible death? His killers attire?

Then the resentment sets in. Of all the things he's faced as a hunter—all the creatures he's thought he could be killed by, he never expected a human to even come close to delivering the blow. Irony. Poetic justice or some crap like that. Just his luck.

The reality of the situation comes to him in that moment. Sam hasn't found them, Dean has no way out, and Calem looks desperate enough to actually kill him, whether Dean gives him what he wants or not.

"So, Dean, what do you say?" The knife appears out of nowhere and Dean finds himself getting tired of it. When he gets out of this situation, he's going to melt that thing into a_ stupid little puddle. _"Have you been thinking about my...proposition?"

Of course he has been thinking about the ring. It's not like there's anything else to do in the little prison chamber.

"No."

"No, what?" When Dean sees the agitation on Calem's face, he figures it's a small victory.

"No, I'm not telling you where the stupid ring is." He spits at Calem's face, but both dehydration and slight delirium makes him miss his target.

"You will soon feel very differently, Dean. Very, _very _differently." The knife trails over his skin in a loose pattern, but never actually touches him, "Fortunate for you, I have a previous engagement I must attend, but I will be back soon and, rest assured, you _will _tell me the location of what I seek."

Dean stares at Calem defiantly until the I-take-my-evil-phrases-right-out-of-the-comic-books villain is out of sight and the door secured. Dean smirks and pulls a small wire from behind his back. _Bingo_.

* * *

><p><em>Review, my peeps, or cute little Harry and Dean won't make it out alive...<em>

_I'm lying._

_Maybe._

_So let's review and be safe, shall we? _


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam, Calem

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood

**Spoilers:** None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**: 3,316(~11,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural

**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away.

**Author's Note:** Huh. Only one chapter left. THis story is drawing to a close. unfortunately, once I post that I probably won't have much time to update any other stories. I'm in all honors classes including Hon. Chemistry(which I really need to put my entire focus on right now), so sorry. Enjoy.

_To answer a few reviewers questions: _

_No the ring isn't a hallow. That would be one of the elements that would appear in a sequel if I decide to do one sometime in the future. _

_Harry is thirteen in this story. You find out how long he's been there in the next chapter. _

_There is no rape in this story. Calem is sick, but he never goes that far. I'm afraid the thought is a bit much for me. I can handle torture and blood(sadly), but rape is beyond my capabilities._

* * *

><p>Criminals are so predictable compared to Demons.<p>

It takes a total of twenty seconds combined to jimmy the locks and free himself, but it takes almost a minute for him to use his weakened limbs to stand and react correctly. In the corner, Harry stares at him with an expression akin to awe.

Managing to hoist himself up the side of the wooden structure turns out to be harder than he formerly expected. Three days of starvation has significantly weakened most of his limbs; walking is hard, climbing is harder. He ignores the stabbing pain in the lower region of his stomach and the aches in his upper arms in favor of tediously balancing on the thin wooden that makes up the part where a prisoner would have their arms attached.

His own arms twinge a bit in remembrance.

"What are you doing?" The small voice echoes as Harry inches forward curiously, observing the unstable position Dean's in.

"Trying to get us out of here." Dean huffs, pulling himself up fully so that he can reach the cement, hoping there was some sort of detaching mechanism. If there isn't, all his his planning was for nothing. He feels around for a few moments, looking for anything that would detach...and finds another lock.

Dean smirks, triumphant, and pulls the wire from where he'd stashed it between his lips for the climb. He feels his way towards the lock again, stretching as much as possible. It's quite a bit harder to pick a lock when it's out of sight and his arm is at such as awkward angle, but after five minutes and a reassuring click later, he's lowering the cement carefully to the floor. Just because Calem's gone doesn't mean there are guards outside the door who would find loud noises interesting and come to investigate.

Once more, he climbs up and pulls the final protective covering—a thin piece of metal with slate for the air to filter through — from the hole. Instantly, a burst of cool air surrounds him, nearly knocking him over. There's a strong gust of wind flowing through the tunnel, meaning they probably weren't very far from the surface and the way out.

The tunnel goes up about two feet before branching off to in two directions. Dean sticks his hand up in the tunnel and determines the air is coming from the left passage. That's their best way out.

"Can you climb up here?" He directs the question towards Harry who looks uncertain.

"Think so."

"Come on then, I'll help you."

Harry makes it halfway up the side before he starts to slip and Dean's forced to lean down, grabbing Harry's forearm smoothly. Dean nearly falls, but he catches himself at the last minute. He helps Harry clamor the rest of the way up.

When they're both safely up top, Dean holds him close, carefully whispering instructions, "Follow that tunnel until you find a way out. Don't stop no matter what. I'll be right behind you. Feel the air, okay?"

Harry nods, so Dean hoists him carefully into the tunnel. The boy disappears for a few moments and Dean waits until Harry's face appears over the side to pull himself up. It's extremely small; someone of Sam's build would never have a chance of squeezing their way through here.

The ventilation shaft is short, but Dean expected that of a home-project. Calem doesn't seem like the type to hire a professional outside source to do his dirty work. It leaves a paper trail—something people outside the project may find out about.

They emerge in a small wooded area, near the highway. It's day and bright sunlight shines through the trees, beating down upon them. Harry shrinks away from the sun at first, making a small sound of pain. Dean covers the boy's eyes, as well as his own as he waits for them adjust to the light. It hurts, but not as badly as it does Harry.

That annoying, nagging part of him comes back, wondering just how long it's been since Harry's seen the sun. "Harry, we've gotta get out of here. Calem may still be around somewhere."

The trip topside has been way too easy; there's always a catch.

Dean didn't bother to cover the hole the shaft made—Calem is going to know how they got out either way. Disguising their escape would only waste time they don't have.

Harry is still curled up in a little ball, covering his delicate eyes from the devious rays of sunlight that beam down upon them, so Dean picks up the kid and sets off in the direction of the highway. He's going a lot slower than if he was alone, but no way in Hell is he going to leave Harry behind for Calem and his followers to pick up again.

He navigates the woods carefully, not wanting to trip and crush Harry beneath his weight because of his current weakness. Days without food will do that to a person.

After a few minutes of walking, Dean allows himself a brief respite and relaxes against the side of a nondescript tree of average proportions. Harry groans and manages to remove his hand from it's protective stance in front of his face and blink a few times, looking in every direction but towards the sun. "I c'n walk."

"You sure, buddy?"

At the answering nod, Dean lowers the smaller than normal kid to the ground, clouds of dirt flaring up around the small boy as his bare feet hit. Dean feels a bit of regret that Harry is going to force himself to walk on the hard forest floor without any means of protection for his feet, but one thing he's learned is that Harry is stubborn despite his captivity up to this point and refuses any coddling or comfort.

Well, if Harry wants to walk, he will walk. Dean has no qualms about independence. At Harry's age, he was watching Sam while his father was out on hunts. Heck, he was out on hunts half the time. It would be hypocritical for him to say no.

After a few more moments of rest, Dean pushes himself off the tree and continues his steady walk towards the highway. Behind him, Harry trails a few feet back with a thoughtful expression on his face. He remains mostly impassive during the walk, but Dean can tell something's up.

It's nothing good—that much is clear.

The highway comes into sight a few seconds later, but Dean stays carefully out of sight, his eyes scanning the road suspiciously. If their absence was noticed, they could be in any of those cars, awaiting for them to emerge with hopes of hitchhiking.

Coming into the open would give them away instantly.

"We're going to follow this road to the nearest town, okay Harry?" The kid hardly seems to hear Dean. His eyes are wide, staring at the busy road with slight fear. Who_ knows_ if the kid's ever even seen a road.

The anger is back.

Stupid psychopaths, ruining the life of an innocent child. If Harry doesn't turn away from all adult figures it'll be a miracle.

Dean takes Harry's hand in his own and the boys eyes slowly disconnect from the road to meet Dean's own eyes, a plea hidden deep down. "Hey, don't worry. We're out of that place now. We're gonna meet up with my brother, Sam—you remember me telling you about him?"

"Yes." The voice is timid, quiet.

"He's going to get us far away from here. You're not going back no matter what."

"How do you know?" The inane look—empty and dry—nearly drives Dean to punch the nearest tree in frustration. Whatever Calem has been doing to Harry has broken him so deep, it hurts Dean to even _look_.

"I'm going to _personally_ make sure of it." And he will. Though Dean considers himself to be an extremely bad example to children—the one-night stands being a key influence—he won't break a promise.

Ever.

"Why?"

There's the million dollar question—the question not even he has an answer to.

_Because that's how I was raised._

_Because I care. _

_Because I..._

They all mean the same thing. No matter what cocky attitude he puts up, he has a heart. Seeing a child so torn up puts everything into perspective.

Dean's seen a lot of things over the years. He's had children die in his arms when him and his brother arrive to late. Parents have screamed, thrown things at him when he doesn't bring back the news they want to hear. He disconnects in those situations, not letting the deaths get to him. He knows that if he does, it would eat away at him, slowly ripping him to shreds.

Harry got close somehow, so now it's _personal. _Calem isn't going to hurt Harry again.

Calem won't hurt _anyone_.

"I don't know."

And it's the truth.

_(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)_

It's a long walk to town. If they followed the highway, it might have been a much quicker trip, but staying out of sight is difficult, especially when the trees ended and open up into endless fields in every direction. He's really starting to hate the state of corn. Really,_ really _hate it. Come on, how much corn does one state have to grow anyway?

Hiding is essential so they took their time, staying well out of sight, using the long routes and ducking into ditches whenever necessary. It's tedious, but they don't get caught, so it works. Usually, Dean's all for the rush in and nearly get ourselves killed plan, but seeing as they don't have a weapon on them and he's useless from overexertion and lack of substance, that plan would only be stupid and irrational.

So they walk and hide, walk and hide, walk and hide in an endless cycle.

If Dean had longer hair, he may have pulled it out in frustration.

The nearest town turns out to be a drab little place with a population of less than 2,000, cloaked darkness despite the bright sunlight. When Dean and Harry trudge into town, no one is in the streets and most of the shops on Main Street are closed. If Dean hadn't seen a small child poke her head through the curtain of one of the houses, he may have thought it was deserted. It isn't, though, and that means there's some mode off communication around...like a payphone.

He finds one outside the town's obsolete post office, past some overgrown weeds, and taps the numbers in quickly. The phone rings twice before Sam picks it up, sounding tired and crabby. "Hey, Sam. Need you to pick me up."

"_Dean?"_

"No, Samantha, the tooth fairy."

The silence on the other end is deafening.

"_Funny, Dean. You're a real riot." _The sarcasm relaxes him; this is familiar territory. "_Where are you?"_

Dean recites the address and city carefully. Now is not the time to send Sam to Montana because he gives him the wrong zip code. "Be careful, Sam. It's not a creature taking these people."

"_Humans?"_ Sam doesn't sound as surprised as he should be.

"Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?" Dean grunts out, casting a look over his shoulder to make sure Harry hasn't run off. When he sees Harry sitting behind the weeds, out of view of the road, he turns back to his conversation. "The human theory might've been nice before I got shot at."

"_None of this shows any signs of any creature we've dealt with. Human serial killers are pretty good at what they do now. I'm surprised we haven't wandered across any before now."_ A pause. _"Don't call me Sammy."_

"Whatever you say, Samantha," Dean replies smoothly, "Get here fast. There's a whole cult of these psychos out to get us."

"_I'm only about thirty minutes away." _

"Gotcha. Sam, they're out for a ring. It's at Bobby's, Celtic kind of designs all over it. Bobby'll know what I'm talking about." Dean hangs up first, signals Harry to follow him, and they go deeper into the alley, where there's hopefully cover from the town nasties.

He's going to need to buy another phone soon, since his cell was taken after being captured—by frickin' _humans_.

_Holy crap_, he got overtaken by a bunch of trigger-happy _humans_. Sam's never going to let this one go.

When the shots start to ring out in the alley out of _nowhere, _only Dean's hunter instincts prevent him from getting a shot between the shoulder-blades right of the bat. He pulls Harry to the ground forcefully, pushing him behind a nearby dumpster.

Dean curses under his breath as a new round of shots ring out; there isn't nearly enough room for both him and Harry to fit, so he dives behind a less conspicuous pile of...actually, he really doesn't want to know what it is.

Unless Sam gets here pretty damn fast, they are going to be so screwed.

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

The loud shots stop abruptly and Dean tenses, his eyes scanning the alley. The only people currently caring enough about a Winchester to shoot at him is Calem—meaning, somewhere, Calem is pretty mad. Mad enough to kill them? Hell, yes.

In other words, he and Harry need to get out of here.

The alley is almost useless—Dean has the urge to slap himself for backing himself into a dead end corner. On two sides, tall, three story buildings loom over them ominously. Behind him, there's a solid, brick wall a least two stories high and no possible footholds in sight. No fire-escapes remain on the sides of any of the buildings, a set-up if he's ever seen one. The only objects in the alley is a dumpster, the pile of whatever he's hiding behind, and a few beers bottles littering the area.

_God_, he really needs a beer right now.

So, when Calem steps into sight, effectively blocking the only way out, with a gun in hard and a hard expression Dean figures their pretty much screwed. Sam's probably still a good ten minutes away, so unless Dean can hold off Calem...

"Dean, Dean, _Dean_." At the false happiness in Calem's sickeningly sweet voice, Deans hands clench and he lets his forehead rest against the brick wall. This guy complete _sickens_ him."I must say, this was a novel attempt. I would applaud you if not for the fact that we're on a rather tight schedule right now."

He's being lured out.

Apparently Calem, for some reason, doesn't want to shoot him.

"But I found out a lot about you by your disappearance. Probably much _more_ than you want me to know." Calem lets the gun fall to his side, but in a way that it could easily be pulled back up again and fired within seconds. There is no way to get the gun from Dean's current position. "You had the opportunity to leave alone, but you took the boy. I have no doubt that you would be long gone, _untraceable, _if that boy wasn't there, mucking up the trail."

Harry shifts behind the dumpster, looking at Dean with wide eyes. It doesn't take a genius to recognize the guilt within their depths.

"Yet, you took him and a that tells me something about you, Dean. Something quite _curious._" Calem lifts his jaw, staring down the alley as if he felt he was above the setting. He takes one, confident step forward, a sick grin slowly forming below his glowing eyes. "You're some sort of vigilante. You care more about the stupid boy than yourself. I'm sure that's it. I wonder," Calem pauses his small speech, his eyes finally fixating on the dumpster. "What you would do if I, say, decide to shoot him right now? Just like that?"

Dean grits his teeth. It's not the first time a bad guy figures out just what _gets_ him, but it is the first time a human has figured it out. This particular human is planning to exploit that weakness.

There isn't a chance in Hell that Harry will take the fall for all this—Dean just needs more time.

"Do you want to hear my theory, Dean?" Calem stops, actually _expecting_ Dean to answer. "Why don't you make this easier and just stop hiding like a child. I expect this kind of thing from the kid, but not from you. Aren't you Winchesters supposed to be a big deal?" Calem laughs softly as he begins to pace the alley. "I'm only seeing a coward.

"Dean, I'm going to tell you the absolute truth right now. You are not going to get out of there alive unless you come with me. I'm sure you have already determined the possibility of any sort of escape from a place such as this." Calem crouches on the, looking completely comfortable in the position on his toes, leaning forward slightly. "Let me tell you something else. I have twelve competent men up on the roofs with guns, fully loaded. Tell me, what are the chances of you getting out of here alive?"

_He talks like a cop_. The revelation surprises Dean at first—until he realizes how incredibly possible it is nowadays.

"If you are so adverse to answering me, then I think I should answer the question myself." Calem remains in the crouch, gun still hanging off to the side. He still isn't unprotected, because if he's telling the truth, then Dean's guts would be all over the sidewalk before he even got a chance to think about disarming their 'leader'."It's impossible. Not even you, Dean, can manage to scale that wall. You could try to get by me," the psycho admits freely, "but you won't get far, will you. Either I or one of the twelve other men surrounding the area would ensure you were incapacitated before stepping within five feet of me. So, tell me, what are your options?"

Calem switches tactics, straightening up once more with a thoughtful gleam to his strange eyes. "I think there's something I should tell you about that boy you rescued, Dean. Something very...important." Dean can clearly see Harry pale and begin trembling even from the distance that separates them. "Do you remember what I did to you—that pain I inflicted without so much as touching your skin?"_No asshole, I forgot._ He seriously considers saying the words out loud, but Calem probably wouldn't appreciate the sarcasm.

"I filtered that power from the kid. All that _wonderful_ pain came directly from him. Wasn't it _exhilarating_?"

When Dean doesn't answer, Calem makes a hand gesture towards one of the buildings. Dean sighs, fully aware of just how deep this problems is beginning to go—the kid being some sort of jumbotron of power is not helpful information, even if it is weird and slightly...disturbing.

To make matters worse, the situation is completely out of his hands.

The first guard that comes at him gets a swift punch in the nose. The reassuring cracks tells Dean that he definitely broke the guys nose. Dean, in return, receives a couple kicks from the back-up(_s_), while the original guard blubbers about his perfect nose being doomed to be crooked now._ Hope your wife divorces you, you sonofabitch._ The familiar jibe makes him smile, despite the blood dripping down his face. Just because he's weak doesn't mean he will go down without a decent fight.

One of them gets a lucky shot at his head and it all disappears—just for a little while.

He really, _really_ needs to stop getting himself into these kinds of situations.

* * *

><p><em>Poor Dean. Poor Harry. I make them suffer a lot don't I?<em>

_Review for poor unconscious Dean. He's gong to need the pick-me-up when he finally stops getting knocked around._


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood.

**Spoilers**: None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**: 2,355 (~11,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural.

**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock.

**Author's Note:** _PLEASE READ the note at the end. It's very important. This is the final part(other than a pending epilogue.) Enjoy. Geez, I love this story so much and I don't even know why. _

* * *

><p>Sam kneels at the back of a deserted alley, eyes fixed on a pool of red blood somewhere near the back. Human blood. He sighs, standing up and rubbing his face tiredly. This is <em>so<em> like Dean. When the phone rings and an untraceable number pops up, Sam figures its just his day getting worse.

Five minutes later, he's ringing up Bobby and asking about a ring.

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

It takes Dean a few minutes to open his eyes after he felt consciousness hit him again. A combination of pain and the faintest lightheaded feeling pulls at the back of his skull, encasing him in a surreal veil of _nothingness_.

He can tell a lot of things before he's fully conscious. He's back on one of the odd wooden structure, hanging by only his wrists, the pain making his arm twitch in odd little spasms. He's been hanging here a lot longer than last time. Another thing? The room is much larger than the last one. Even in his stasis-like state, he can feel a large emptiness surrounding him. It's not as suffocating as last time, and a thin breeze of arms flows around him, trickling over his naked torso reverently. The fact that he isn't alone is also clear. Around him, he can hear the panicked breathes of at least ten more people, and the sobs of others.

So the people who disappeared are still alive, kept here, underground.

His green eyes, dull from the haze of tiredness still gripping him tight within it's clutches, finally open and he discovers...very little. The room is dark—so dark it's difficult to see much of the room without it starting to get a bit distorted around the edges. The room turns out to be much larger than he expected—it could easily fit a high school gymnasium within its confines and have some room left over for a small soccer match.

The people, a far as he can see, are in positions identical to his, forming a very large circle around _something_...and his vision swarms as he attempts to attune his vision to the very center, where a symbol, blood red and _huge, _is painted right in the middle of it all.

Okay, a ritual. A very big, very bad one if this many humans are needed as the main course.

Calem is dabbling in some pretty powerful stuff. It seems not even the psychopathic human serial killers can keep to the normal stuff—knives and guns. Nope. Satanic rituals are all the rage this year kiddies.

"Dean, we're all waiting for you to wake up. You fall unconscious at the most unorthodox of times, don't you?" Deans groans and closes his eyes, because that's not the voice he wants to wake up to. In fact, he would be happy if he never has to hear the guys vile tongue ever again. "Uh-uh, Dean-boy. Gotta stay awake for this part. I would apologize, but I'm not sorry, so it would be a bit redundant, don't you think?"

"Thought you just wanted the stupid ring." His tongue twists inside his mouth, aching and sore. Great. If he becomes mute because of this episode, he's _really_ going to be pissed.

"What? _This_ ring?" When the very same ring—the only leverage Dean holds in the situation—is held of to his face, glinting in the faint light coming from a few candles palced cleverly around the room. His stomach sinks. _Dammit_. "Your brother generously came by and gave it to me. I think he expected me to let you go. How..._funny._"

"Shut up, you _bastard_."

"Nuh-uh-uh. Your momma would be ashamed of that mouth." Calem smiles widely, clasping the ring tightly in his right fist. "Now, I need you to do me a favor and sit there, look pretty, and die when I tell you to, all right?"

"Go to Hell." Sure, it's probably not the wisest thing to say in the present situation, but Dean has never claimed to be smart. That's all Sammy.

"Oh, my right foot's already in the fire. I just need a little _push_. You won't care either way in a few minutes anyway." Dean frowns, because it doesn't make any _sense_. Calem pauses for a moment, turns, and looks Dean right in the eye while wearing one of his trademark smirks. "No hard feelings, of course."

"Right. _No hard feelings,_" It was barely a mumble and Calem gave no sign that he heard the quiet retort.

Instead, the to-be mass murderer strides towards the center of the room and comes to a stop right in the middle of the symbol where a series of inverted arrows were pointing, putting the ring right in the center. Then, he takes a step back, completely outside the red lines.

A few black candles are lit outside the circle of prisoners by guards, though Dean never sees the actual people. Despite knowing it's pointless, he pulls on his restraints a few times, cursing at his weakness without a care as to whether Calem is listening.

Calem doesn't seem to mind either way. He does a quick 180, looking decidedly gleeful. _This is so not going well at all for the good-guys._ "Bring him in."

'Him' turns out to be Harry, bloody and blindfolded. Even the darkness can't hide the fact that Harry's paler than ever and shaking like a leaf. He isn't crying and Dean wants to applaud him for that. No need to give the murderers unnecessary joy by demonstrating so much tangible fear.

Calem reaches out and grabs Harry by the hair; at first, the boy seems to panic and lashes out vigorously with his arms, wildly trying to take down anything with his small hands. At one point, Harry actually gets close enough to swipe at Calem's face...and leaves bloody claw marks down his cheek.

The first negative emotion Dean sees Calem wear appears when he reaches up to touch his cheek and his hand comes away with blood. "Stupid kid." Calem swings at Harry and the delicate kid falls to the ground, unconscious from the hard blow to the back of the head. "Good thing this will still work if you're unconscious, dearest."

Dean makes sure Calem isn't looking his way and bangs his head on the edge of the wood that holding him up and discovered two things. One? Banging his head didn't help at all. And two? The wood fucking _hurts_.

Calem quickly and efficiently places Harry in the outer ring of the symbol—as a power filter, Dean realizes dully, his head beginning to spin. Almost instantly, Dean is able to recognize the effects of a drug—he was _drugged_.

It isn't like any other drug he's ever been under the influence of—and there has been a fair few. Most drugs have him either falling asleep within minutes or make him do things he really doesn't want to talk about in the morning. Whatever Calem put in his system kept him awake—wide awake—and for some reason, he suddenly doesn't want to say anything.

Psychopaths.

He has to get out of the getup somehow—had to get these people away from this...

_Why do you care?_

He twitches, startled by the foreign voice in his head. Okay, so he's going crazy. No biggie. Nothing new.

_You don't know these people...why do you care?_

He didn't answer the voice, because answering a voice that's only in your head? It's a whole new level of insanity, even for him.

_You don't care._

The change in tactic surprises him. But it shouldn't. It's his own head...right?

_You don't care..._

_You don't care..._

_You don't care..._

I do.

_You don't._

Dean shoves the voice away, trying to escape the influence of the drug, but it just springs back, wrapping his head in a hazy fog. How is he supposed to get out of this when he can't think straight? Calem made it sound like Sam's out of commission, so that's completely useless...

He eyes catch on something through the fog...something strange...

Calem has his back turned away from the symbol, chanting a strange latin phrase under his breath as his eyes gaze towards the ceiling. It's so clinché, Dean has the sudden urge to laugh in the melodramatic man's face for the effort at trying to be impressive when it clearly is _not_ working in his favor.

Harry, however, is not where Calem left him. The boy is on his toes, bare feet coming in handy as he quietly stalks forward, slightly crouched. He has a weird expression on his face—as if he's about to do something he's not sure of.

Harry reaches beneath his thin shirt and pulls out a knife that chills Dean's blood. The knife is so familiar, probably because it's the first knife John ever gave Sam, right after revealing their hunting tendencies, and it's in Harry's not-so-capable hands.

Harry never knew what hit him.

One second, the knife is clutched tightly in inexperienced fingers as if it's a lifeline and the next, Calem's spinning around as if he somehow sensed the boy's movement. Harry still attempts to go for a killing blow but the sad truth is Calem's so much larger than little, malnourished Harry—and doubly strong. Harry really had no chance in hindsight.

Calem plucks the dagger from Harry's hands as if its a toy and shoves the boy to the ground—Dean winces when the sound of a sharp crack comes from that general direction. A broken wrist, probably. Sam and Dean have had enough of those combined to know what it sounds like.

Then something happens—something Dean may have missed if he blinked at the wrong time.

Despite the broken wristbone, Harry grits his teeth and jerks one of Calem's legs out from underneath him as the megalomaniac went to kick Harry for his troubles. Dean watches the fall in slow motion—the surprise that crosses Calem's face, the anger, and finally, the moment when the murderer twist at the wrong time and falls on the knife in his own hands.

He didn't die quickly.

It isn't the death Calem deserves—he needs much worse—but it's over and Dean doesn't care about anything other than that.

Harry stands next to the body and Dean can see him trembling from a mile away as the boy stares at the body, blank-faced. No guards come running—there's no sound of bullets being loaded or shots taken. It's suddenly quiet—almost too quiet.

"Harry," His throat burns as he fights off the drug. It's surprising he can talk at all under the effects. "You need to get outta here, kid."

Harry seems to snap out of his trance, frowning as he looks up at Dean with wide green eyes. "No." Harry takes the knife back in two hands, holding it close. "I have to get everyone out."

Right. So Harry has to turn around and be one of those save-the-people kind of kids—not that Dean's complaining. It might make his job a whole lot easier. "Okay, any chance you can get me down from here?"

Harry takes a few steps forward, strangely cautious for a kid. "I don't know. I can try."

Dean nods, testing the restraints a third time. Nope. Still completely out of his hands. "You do that, then."

(~) (~) (~) (~) (~)

The boy walks in circles around Dean, only stopping once he is out of Dean's eyesight. He stares at the exposed back of the man who helped him and smiles sadly. He slowly raises his hand, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. His hands are trembling and he's desperately trying not to think about the man he just killed.

Even if the knife hadn't been in his hand when it went through Calem's stomach, it's still Harry's fault.

Harry hates Calem. He's hated him for years. Ever since..._that day_...he's been completely at Calem's mercy—a unwilling subject to his various pokes and prods. The tests—the awful experiments he was forced to put up with for over two years was enough to stifle any hesitations he had towards the actual killing, but the feeling of the blood dripping down his fingers, drying into puddles on the grounds sends shudders down his back.

Harry isn't a normal kid. He's always known he's different from everyone else. The day he got that letter in weird ink from the giant only cinched the whole deal together. Having...magic isn't normal. Magic. Even years of hearing the word come from Calem's lips can't make it seem real.

Even if it is real, and he knows it has to be—how else would he be able to do the things he can do?—it can't be good. Magic is why the Dursley's never loved him like they loved Dudley, Harry's obese cousin.

It's the reason why the Dursely's sold him to Calem for a quick pound or two before he could ever set foot on the train station and his newly bought school supplies were burned before his eyes. _How is that good?_

The chains clink open and Dean falls to the ground when his feet can't support him.

Harry sighs gently, sits down on the ground, and stares at the body—Calem—once more. His tormentor is dead.

Gone.

Harry knows what that ring is for—Calem was much too smug...too incredibly happy to have the ring back in his hands not to brag. It was all about reclaiming heritage. Apparently, Calem's family once used to be some pretty powerful sorcerers with everything going for them until a Hunter stole the ring from them, and their powers in the process.

Harry isn't a stupid kid. He can read between the lines.

Calem's ancestors were just as twisted and insane as he was, so a hunter came along and made them less...powerful.

But Calem is..._was_...the last of his family—the only one left. The ring in anyone else's hands is useless. Harry pulls the ring out of his pocket, staring at the strange Celtic symbols, wondering where it all went wrong.

_It's not over. It's never over._

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><p>" <em>Keep your fears to yourself but share your courage with others " Robert Louis Stevenson<em>

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><p><em>Sorry, Sam refused to write himself for me, so he kinda...got cut from the scene? It's hard to believe he's my favorite character. <em>

_So...my plan at first was to have Harry stab Calem, but then it started to seem unbelievable. Little Harry against a very-capable adult? Not very likely. In retrospect, I like this way better. Poetic justice, in a way._

_**This is the important part:** Okay, so maybe not the best place to end the story, but it fit my purposes. I am, however, thinking about writing an **epilogue** despite this technically being the end. **Review** and tell me if you want a little bit of a look down the road a bit. I don't know how long. Two? Five? Ten years later? I really want people opinions on this one. Heck, **suggestions** and **ideas** from my readers would be awesome. Tell me something and I may** write **it. _

_Review._


	6. Epilogue

**Title:** Celtic Stars and Crooked Scars

**Characters**: Harry Potter, Dean, Sam

**Rating**: M (for language only)

**Warnings**: Language, non-descriptive torture, and blood.

**Spoilers**: None, though this happens in Season 3, so knowing up until then might be helpful.

**Word** **Count**:1,036 (~13,000 total)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Supernatural. Nor do I own the lyrics at the end.

_**Summary**: Dean finds himself captured by a real psychopath, and meets Harry, a boy who has been chained up for years. It's a desperate attempt at survival and time is ticking away. Tick tock, Dean, tick tock._

_**Author's Note: **This is a very short little piece I wrote. It's not necessarily an epilogue, but since I'm thinking about writing a longer sequel, this is more of a little peek at what (might) happen. _

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><p><em>Harry unintentionally winces when the iron rod swings a little two close to his head, then quickly half-steps away. His focus is solely on the being in front of him. The corrupted, blackened creature grins, wiping blood reverently from the mouth of whatever human it's currently possessing.<em>

"_Oh, poor, poor child. All alone with no one here to help you." It mocks, the heated words spilling from its lips in a cacophony of hate and disgust._

_The words are lethal to Harry, who glares and desperately tries to ignore the blind panic that the mocking tone and whimsical words that spring from the ugly demons' lips. The feeling the words strike in him is unmistakeable — fear. _

_He hates being afraid._

_The young boy simply presses his lips tighter together, keeping low to the ground as his eyes seeks a weapon — any weapon. Of course, there is nothing around that could so much as hurt the host body, let alone kill a bloody demon. He feels familiar helplessness — his fate is completely in the hands of whatever demon is after him now._

_More than anything else, he hates being at the mercy of a demon who clambered up from Hell on a whim._

_Harry ducks below another swing the demon takes, almost in a casual fashion. The hatred reflecting in both sets of eyes is unmistakeable. He bristles slightly as the demon smiles and swings once more. _

_Harry knows it's playing with him._

_It likes the fear it sees in the boy's eyes. It hungers for the cries of pain and tangible dismay he gives off as he tries to flee from the situation. The fear in the air thickens when Harry realizes there is nowhere to escape. He's locked in a room with a demon for the second time in his life — terrified._

_Alone._

_And this time, the demon is real._

"_What's your name, little boy?" The demon's endless black eyes glitter in the false light, completely mad as all demons tend to be. "And why would such a young child be with the Winchesters?"_

_Harry stays quiet — he's not going to give into the demon's demand for information._

_Not without a fight._

"_Not going to tell me? Are you sure that's a wise idea?" The demon drops the rod in one corner, but there's no way Harry is fast enough to run past the demon and get it without being killed in the process._

"_I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." He mutters cheekily, not caring whether the demon hears him — Harry's just so tired of fighting for his life. For once, he just wants to be left alone for awhile...a few days even._

_The constant taunting and tormenting is making it a little hard to forget that he's in a life or death situation. _

_He wants to forget._

_He wants to forget everything. He wants to let his past leave him. He wants Calem's constant presence within his head — taunting him — to go away. He wants his entire past erased — from the moment he was dropped off at his aunts house up to the second he was rescued from the god-forsaken underground cavern by Dean._

_But the memories don't leave. _

_They never do._

_They never will._

_Harry isn't naïve. He knows he'll be plagued by those memories for the rest of his life. His past will never leave him. It will never let him live in peace, secluded from his inner demons._

_'You were alone all those years...and now you're alone again." How does it know about those years? He's only ever talked to Sam and Dean, and they both know so little about what really happened._

_Harry tenses inwardly at the words, but he remains emotionless on the outside. The smug words spoken by the overly cocky demon cannot be true — he isn't alone. Not anymore._

_He isn't._

_Any second now, the door will burst in and he will be rescued. Dean would never leave him alone with a demon. Dean's a Hunter — he saves people._

_But the door stays shut — sealed from the inside._

_He is alone._

_Again._

A small boy opens his eyes in a panic, his breathing heavy and erratic in the stillness of the motel room. The overwhelming darkness laps at his eyes, nearly sending him into an attack. His eyes adjust slightly to the poor lighting in the room and he immediately turns his attention to the other bed, where both Dean and Sam should lay.

Neither are there. The bed is a mess — its covers are thrown over the side of the bed and the two pillows lay askew. The two Winchester boys are very noticeably gone.

His mind tries desperately to rationalize what was going on — it hasn't been long since they rescued him from Calem and allowed him to travel with them for awhile. It was a temporary arrangement from the start.

Harry knows though; their arrangement has expired and they left him.

His hands tremble and he wants to curse his body for its lack of strength and the tremendous amount of instability it seems to contain. Abandonment seeps into his bones, but he doesn't cry. He can't. He's too old to be crying just because someone left. He should know by now anyway.

Everyone always leaves him.

_Always._

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><p><em>My shadow's the only one that walks beside me<br>My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating  
>Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me<br>'Til then I walk alone_

_(Boulevard of Broken Dreams ~ Green Day)_

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><p><em>This is a short little snippet for you. The sequel (if I get around to writing it) would start earlier than this and be around 15 chapters in length (subject to change). Right now, I'm concentrating on my other story, but I'm going to try to get to this one. I really, really want to continue this, but I find myself lacking both time and inspiration right now.<em>

_Chao. Review._


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